Futility
by PrincelyPastels
Summary: TW: Noncon, Underage, Incest. Request from anonymous for a fic where Bro constantly physically and sexually abuses John. Dave can't do anything but watch/pretend to ignore/look away because he knows he can't beat his bro in a fight, but he wishes he could help John but just can't.
1. Chapter 1

**A.N: Sorry the first chapter is unbelievably short, but I am very tired and just wanted to get the ball rolling, so to speak. Hope this is sufficient, anon, I will be adding multiple chapters to this in due time.**

You pretend to be asleep. You pretend for once that the simplest patter of rain hitting the window of your bedroom is not enough to snap you out of slumber. You pretend to not feel the bed sink with the weight of a third body, hovering over the form that was resting beside you. You pretend not to hear the soft smacking of lips as they cling to skin, not to hear the heavy breaths falling slowly in contrast to startled gasps. You pretend not to hear John whimper "Dave. Dave. Dave."over and over as if your name were a verbal talisman to ward off the cause of his trepidation.

You are afraid. God damn it, you hate yourself and you can feel the sickness rise through you as you hear your best friend begin to sob, shushed gently by your elder brother. You can't help him and you hate yourself for it. You couldn't even help yourself, the bruises you hid beneath that worn out broken record shirt were there to prove it. The scars on your chest from strife aplenty left a cruel reminder to how hopeless an attempt to protect John would be. He's screaming now, begging for you to wake up. To help. You keep your back to them, teeth gnawing into your lip while a hand grips the sheets around you. You pretend to not be there.

Poor John, jerkfaced, idiotic, nerdling John. Your compadre. Your pal. Your brother from another absent mother. He came just to see you, he begged you, and you had this delusion that maybe he would be off limits, because he wasn't family and couldn't be trusted to keep his mouth shut. You let yourself unwittingly allow John to fly straight into hell via Southwest Airlines. You let him beg his father to come down here, you let him get hurt. You know it's your fault and it only fuels your self loathing. You hear your brother begin to get mad, growling for John to pipe down because of the thin walls of your apartment. A loud slap sounded off your walls, you nearly flinched at that. Stifled sobs continue to haunt you as you hear the struggle of getting away from wandering hands. Hear the sliding of cotton over unwilling skin. "_Please. _Don't do this. Dave, Dave make him stop. Dave, wake up, Dave. _Dave. _DAVE!" You hear the crack in his voice and it shatters you. You feel every bit of shame and guilt seep from the cracks formed in your mind, how it bled and stained every passing thought. You couldn't ignore it, but you couldn't acknowledge it.

You feel John thrashing, occasionally hitting you in the process, wails muffled by the same calloused hand that fell heavy over yours all too many times. Even in the darkness with your back turned, you can see everything. You see it all and you wish you couldn't. You could hear the clink of your brother's leather belt, the small zipping sound as it slides out of each belt loop. It flops noisily onto the floor, the metal portion making a dull thud, to which you do flinch. Your flinch is unnoticed, not felt due to the rocking rhythm that was beginning to form. "Fuck yes." You hear your brother hiss, making you nearly vomit on the spot, the nausea only rising when you hear a familiar pop to a bottle. You let your limbs curl in on yourself, hands slammed against your ears and nails digging into your head harshly so the pain could be focused on as opposed to what was taking place beside you in your bed.

You know him. He didn't prepare him. It's apparent by the dry, feral cry piercing through that wretched hand as Bro just moans. All is still, for the most fleeting of moments, You hoped it was already over, that John didn't have to go through any more. You are a fool. The worst had just begun. You pretend to be asleep, still, though you're sure it didn't matter now. It was only being done to make you feel better. To dissociate yourself from the horror happening. And god damn it, you can still hear him, even through the palms clasped against your ears you can hear him crying for you with every thrust, hysterical, helpless cries.

"Shh, shh shh shh..." You hear Bro shoosh breathlessly, beginning to pick up pace in his thrusts, the force enough to make your own body shift with the movements. Your bed creaks as tears leak down your cheeks, lukewarm waterfalls as a worthless sacrifice to any deity who would listen. You did not envy John, nor would you even volunteer to take his place. You know that you wouldn't ever willingly allow yourself to be touched like that, even to protect a friend, and you hate yourself evermore.

The malice just piled up, words of taunting content echoing in your head as you hear the bed creak, your brother moaning like the pig he was, your friend's weak and broken sobs. You were disgustingly selfish and you knew there was nothing you could do. So while the creaking slowed to a crawl in frequency, while you felt the mattress rise slightly as one form receded, as you heard John shift beneath the sheets to shake in a curled ball, you closed your tear stained eyes and pretended to be asleep.


	2. Chapter 2

**A.N. Sorry for the long gap between updates, I hope this makes up for the wait. Also, sorry for the random change of POV after the first paragraph, it is 2 A.M and I am not in the mood for fixing the structure. **

* * *

You have been in the shower for hours, now. You stumbled over Dave and out of his bed, yanked free from cords that snagged on your bare, feet, walked with your rubber legs to the bathroom. You locked the door the moment the door shut, the metal knob jiggling with metallic clicks from your tremulous hands. You felt like you were about to topple over, but only did you let that happen when you reached the toilet bowl in the few steps that seemed to stretch out and feel like each stride was a travel across continents. You couldn't stop thinking about what had happened. What Dave _let_ happen.

The memory of last night played like the previews for movies on a DVD, unskippable, unavoidable. A single thought buzzed in his head, resonating with sickening certainty. _He raped me._ The thought combined with the nerve-shattering experience was what led John to purge his body of anything left in his stomach. His throat, already sore from the screams, already so torn and mangled, burned as if acid were being convulsed out of his tense body. He was deathly afraid. The fear that had clouded up his thoughts last night still rippled inside of him, building up with new found fear of just where the fuck he was, what he'd gotten himself into. He wanted to go home.

He didn't need a mirror to know he looked like death, nor did he care.

What he did care about, however, was the layer of grime he felt, weighted and a physical filth, of sorts, as if he were covered in slime. Everything sang with pain, ghosts of the agony that screamed with life only hours ago. The tired boy clawed his way upright, grimacing down at the slosh of ick he'd vomited before flushing it begrudgingly, watching the sick swill twirl and twist. It spun madly like his head, his emotions, nothing made sense, he felt as if he were on auto-pilot.

After taking more impossibly long steps, John pulled open the shower's door, willing his splintered bones to walk into the cold confines. The cold was a surreal sensation upon the pads of his feet, the same feeling one would experience stepping into a cold room after spending hours outside at the mercy of the summer sun. Numbly, he followed the simple orders his brain sent, turning the knob of the shower, setting it to warm. The warmer the water, the more his legs seemed to melt, until he couldn't stay upright, and he let his back give a bitter kiss to the cold wall behind him. He let himself slide down, feeling as if he were sinking into hell itself, the ground was cold, it had the boy scooting towards the hot water, turning his back to let the water singe him. He wanted it to sink into his skin, burn off the layer that had been touched, burn off any trace that someone had violated him.

Each drop of water felt like a bullet in the back, but John didn't care. He wasn't even in the shower, he was in his mind, at home with his father, eating cake until he was blue in the face from both icing and frustration. He was at home where the neighbors were sweet, the neighborhood was peaceful, where the gusts of wind were a comforting chill that kissed John's cheeks, a winter's blush overtaking his face.

The hot water had run out hours ago, but John hadn't even noticed.

He was curled up in the center of the shower, staring blearily at the stray patters of water that bounced off his body, dripped off his drenched hair, all lacing around John in an ice cold puddle. He was not there. He wouldn't be there for a while.

The summer sun rose early, Dave had watched it rise, knowing full well his best friend was in the shower broken and bereft of anything other than pain and fear. He had to say something. He had to tell him something, yank him out of the shower before the kid got hypothermia. Rising out of bed for this reason felt like awakening from a nightmare about losing a loved one and abruptly getting up to check on them. But this was no nightmare. It was a ghoulish reality, one that Dave had never even thought could occur.

He felt like a puppet, and no empty words could protect John the way they did for Dave. The hollow boy lifted a heavy hand that seemed to protest the gesture, seemed to try and fall rather than knock on the bathroom door. No answer other than the sharp gasps that blended in with the hiss of water. Living in a shitty apartment meant living with doors that had shitty locks. A single jostle and an upward yank of the door, and Dave had the thing opened. The glass obscured the teen's view of the other behind the glass, which didn't seem to notice that Dave had come in. His breaths were still panicked, but not out of acknowledgment of the other's presence. He opened the shower door, the vibrating hum that came with prying the shitty thing ajar seemed to jolt John back into reality, a quick, keening whimper erupting from trembling lips, mangled by the shivering of his form. The sight broke Dave's heart, who had to purse his lips tightly to seal away a whimper of his own. _Speak. _Dave urged himself to say what he needed to say, but it felt like there was a physical blockage in his throat whenever he tried to form the words.

"Bro would have a cow if he knew you were wasting water." Was all he could manage out, stepping one foot in to lean forward and shut the water off, looking down at the trembling form that was John. His face was pale save for his nearly purple, swollen lips, blue eyes shattered, split seas filled with tears.

Briskly, Dave left, returning a minute or so later with a pair of John's clothes that he rummaged from the teen's suitcase. One quaking pair of hands passed the neatly folded garments to another pair. He knew better not to touch John, but god, did he want to hold him, to cry his eyes out until blood streaked with the tears, to say "I'm sorry." until the iron taste filled his mouth and his voice was shriveled into nothing but a hoarse murmur.

Instead, the Strider left the bathroom without another word, closing the door gently as he left John to dress himself. What could he do to help him? He'd only ever had to look after himself, and he knew he was fucked up. Bro had him since he was a seed in the ground, had him long enough to make Dave grow in a gnarled, mangled mess to shape around the elder's own needs. Dave was fucked up, he was afraid, but John was different.

John was fragile and sheltered. He had a father who loved him and didn't need wandering hands to prove it. He had a dad who made him food and kissed away the wounds rather than being the source. He didn't tough up John in dangerous strife, he did it through gentle lessons and fatherly advice. John was different, and this was something that never should have happened.

But it did, and there was no taking it back.


End file.
